


Ordinary Life

by Jadesfire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Friday:</i> Laundry.<br/><i>Saturday:</i> Shopping.<br/><i>Sunday:</i> Church.<br/><i>Monday:</i> Research.<br/><i>Tuesday:</i> Save Dean Winchester's life.<br/><i>Wednesday:</i> Tow car.<br/><i>Thursday:</i> Tidy kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary Life

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to [Donutsweeper](http://donutsweeper.livejournal.com/profile), [](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**pwcorgigirl**](http://pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com/) and [](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/)**rivers_bend** for encouragement, beta-services and housework advice.

_May you live in interesting times_  
Curse, origin unknown.

  
**Friday**

Bobby's always awake before the sun shows itself, and he puts the pre-dawn hours to good use, brushing up on long-forgotten knowledge or learning new subjects. Last month, he reread eight books about Succubi. This month, it's Old High German, and he recites verbs until his bedroom is lit by the sun rather than his tiny bedside lamp. Waking early is a habit that a lifetime of night-work hasn't been able to shift, but he's damned if he'll get out of bed when he doesn't have to. Not when he can read right here, and not at his age; he's earned this much.

The neat way he makes his bed is another unbreakable habit, and he likes to think the mess in the rest of the house makes up for it. Anyway, it only looks messy to other people. He can find everything when he wants it. No sense moving things on and off of shelves when he's using them all the time, is there?

Friday's kit day, and he spreads the contents of his duffel bag out on the table while his oatmeal's heating. His last spare rosary went to the Ridburns when they were passing through last month, so he starts a couple of shopping lists, one for food, one for hunting supplies that also includes palo santo wood for stakes and a couple of books that he knows he'll find at Barlow's in Sheldon. It'd probably be more traditional to find a priest to make the holy water for him, but Bobby's learned it's better to rely on himself for that.

There's no way a paper boy would deliver all the way out here, but Bobby convinced the delivery driver a while back to make an unscheduled stop on the way into Sioux Falls, so he ambles down to the main gate after breakfast, picking up the stack of newspapers and leafing through them as he makes his way back to the house. The wind pulls at him, making it hard to read anything past the front page, and Bobby stops on the steps of the house, looking east over the yard. Beyond the heaps of rusting cars, he can see the sky's clouding over. Low and growly, his mother used to call it, and Bobby knows it's gonna rain later. He'll have to make sure the roof on the '73 Camaro he towed last month is water-tight. The thing might not be saleable, but it'll do him a run to Sheldon. Probably. Assuming the upholstery doesn't get all wet.

Taking the papers inside, Bobby grabs a pencil from the table by the door and starts a new chore list with _roof repairs_. He'll add it to his heap of lists on the kitchen table. They're always more than he can get through, but that's okay. It keeps him busy when it's quiet, and there are days when he needs it to be quiet. Reaching into his pocket, he checks that his cell is on and charged, then takes the hall phone off the hook. Quiet sounds good for today, but he's not idiot enough to put himself completely out of touch. Not at the moment.

While he's gathering things up for the laundry, he finds a shirt that he's fairly sure isn't his. Could be from when Harry Fielding stayed over one night last month, or Ike Sanderson the week after that, or the Winchester boys any time they were here, which seems to be a lot lately. Then again, it could be Bobby's and he's just forgotten wearing it. There's no label in it, which doesn't tell him anything, since he cuts them out, same as Dean, Sam and Ike, but the pattern looks kind of like something Harry would pick. Doesn't really matter, probably. It'll get washed and go back in the dresser along with all the other random pieces Bobby's accumulated over the years. Last time they were here, Dean took two of John's old shirts and a pair of pants that had ended up in the linen closet somehow. With all the extra demon activity lately, seems like Bobby's always putting up hunters who are just passing through. Over the years, he's thought about charging rent, or at least danger money. He could have made a fortune from the Winchesters alone.

He fixes the car roof as best he can, then does some more reading while the laundry's washing, losing himself for a few hours in all the angel lore he can find. It's the silence that rouses him eventually, head spinning a little and his eyes sore from reading. Cursing his own absent-mindedness, because he still hasn't fixed his dryer from when it shrunk three pairs of jeans last week, he glares at the rain falling outside and hangs up the wet clothes in the bathroom to dry.

*****

  
**Saturday**

It's going to rain again today. Bobby can feel it in the light breeze coming through his open bedroom window, although it's still dark outside and the day hasn't really begun yet. Still, he can smell it in the air, something more than just the damp left over from yesterday's showers. His instinct's never wrong about this, and he contemplates just pulling the sheet over his head and declaring today a washout, but he's still got three lists of chores from yesterday, not to mention all the really essential stuff that he should probably get done sooner rather than later.

Saturdays are his computer mornings, and the screen glows obnoxiously at him in the dark of the study. He doesn't have it plugged in while he's using it, just in case (of what, he's not sure, but it feels better this way), and he knows he hits the keys too hard. Sam had winced and grabbed the infernal machine off him last time they worked together, and Bobby had been only too happy to let him do it. The light of the display casts odd shadows over his piles of books, making the reliable tomes that he trusts more than this damn thing look suspicious and shadowy. He'll take them any day, but he knows using the computer is something he needs to work at, same as he works at his lore or spells or Old Norse.

Frowning, and wondering if 5:45 is too early for a stiff drink, he logs onto the network that Sam set him up with. It's weird, the mental image of hunters all over the country opening up their computers and tracking things down in cyberspace, especially since most of them are still wielding shotguns their daddies gave them, but then Bobby's got a cell phone on his desk next to the Sahnish bowl, so yeah, okay. Maybe it's not that weird.

Nothing local's come up, and he didn't spot anything in the papers yesterday, so he logs off and shuts down the computer with considerable relief. Only once he's sure it's asleep does he plug it into the outlet and go fix himself some breakfast. It's raining already, so today's papers will be a sodden mess, and the Camaro's leaking a little, despite his work on it yesterday. Since he doesn't sit in the back to drive, he decides he'll deal with it later. It's not far to Sheldon, after all, and if he gets a bit damp, well. He'll dry out again.

Unfortunately, Nate Barlow doesn't see things quite the same way.

"Stand there," he says, pointing from Bobby to the doormat as though he's a particularly dumb dog before disappearing into the back of the shop, muttering the whole time. Bobby takes off his damp cap, turning it in his hands as he waits for Barlow to come back with a towel. Only once he's stopped dripping is he allowed further inside to look through the books.

"Any luck?" he asks as he browses the latest additions to Barlow's stock. "With my list, I mean."

"I knew what you meant." Despite his all-round grouchiness and a contrary nature that makes Dean Winchester look like an obedience school graduate, Barlow's damn good at his job, and Bobby's never found a book that he couldn't source. Not that he makes it easy to buy them. "Gonna cost you," he says, tugging at his wispy beard.

"Don't it always?" Pulling out a nineteenth century history of the area that he doesn't think he's seen before, Bobby carries on his with his usual charade of not being interested, while Barlow does his usual act of being a mean old grump. Except that part's probably true.

"Found something else you might like," Barlow adds, letting go of the straggles of his beard long enough to heft a book out from under the counter. "Not on your list, but thought it was in your line."

It is. Bobby runs a practiced eye over the plates before scanning the text. John always used to rib him for looking at the pictures first, but you can tell a lot about a book by the quality of the illustrations; the colors and the sharpness of the outlines are as revealing as the words themselves. This is a good one.

"How much?" Bobby asks, not bothering to hold back a bark of laughter when Barlow names a price. They haggle for a while, the way they always do, settling on a price that's more than Bobby'd planned to pay, but still reasonable for the four books he wanted plus the extra. After shaking on it, Bobby hands over the cash and persuades Barlow to box them up while he goes to run the rest of his errands.

Two bags of groceries split from the rain before he can get them in the trunk, but it's more or less dry by the time he goes back for the books. There's another box there now too, and Bobby ignores Barlow's grumbles about not being the local post office, thanking him with exaggerated gratitude for holding onto it, and grinning at the extra annoyance he gets in return. Sheldon's not a big center for hunters, but everyone knows Bobby's here once a week, and he's used to taking extra stuff home with him. Although judging by the weight of this box, he should have brought a truck.

Since Barlow would probably burst a blood vessel if he did it in the shop, Bobby waits til he's outside to put the package down and open it up. The contents look harmless enough, and nothing smokes when splashed with holy water, so it's probably okay to go in the car. He mutters a few incantations over the box just the same, and once he's got it safely stowed, he draws a few sigils on the cardboard. There's no such thing as too careful, and someone might actually buy the Camaro eventually, assuming nothing curses it in the meantime.

The rain's just starting up again as he drives out of town, and he hopes the trunk is watertight, or he's going to spend three days trying to get cornmeal out of the lining.

*****

**Sunday**

Church is part of most hunters' routines, although the local one isn't much to write home about. Bobby dozes through the homily and stirs right on schedule for the hymns and prayers, doing as much gazing up at the crucifix behind the altar as listening to the preacher spin his yarn. It's the one time in the week when he lets his guard down enough to just think, to sit in the peace and let himself be. He's here every week and has yet to exchange more than two words with anyone, slipping in after the service begins and out just before it ends, mind and soul not healed, but at least refreshed enough to survive another week.

Back at home, the box turns out to be a wash, although Bobby's thinking Buddy Coleman's going to get a kick out of the fake Thelamatic talismans, which are kind of pretty for all that they're totally useless. Buddy's got a good contact for selling that kind of thing, and Bobby makes a few calls to put the word out to him, as well as carefully typing a note for the online notice board. The hunter network's more reliable than any cell company could ever be.

It doesn't take him long to sort the rest. A few hex bags for safe burning, a couple odd looking rocks that give off EMF like nobody's business and a hideous shepherdess statuette that, according to Jamie Carlton's note, caused three old ladies to lose the rest of their marbles and go on killing sprees. Bobby's glad he read the note before he picked the thing up, and he's in the kitchen looking for some tongs when his cell phone rings. It's Vince Miller and by the time he's got to "…in trouble, Bobby," Bobby's clearing books from the desk and setting up for some serious casting.

The rest of the day is lost, as Bobby frantically overturns piles of books and sorts through old notes about hexes, skimming, reading and discarding, all with one eye on the clock. It takes longer than he'd've liked to find the counter-spell, then he can't find any sage in any of the kitchen cupboards. It's only when the study is full of acrid smoke and his phone beeps reassuringly in his pocket that Bobby lets himself relax again, glancing at the clock and groaning. Six hours. His throat is sore from the smoke and the chanting, and his head aches from the effort. Only amateurs think it's just about the words. This stuff hurts, and he sinks gratefully into the chair, clearing space on the desk with the vague thought of putting his head down and sleeping for a month. He barely catches himself before he picks up the ugly little figurine with his bare hands, and he groans again. It's going to have to be broken, salted and burned, along with the stones and hex bags, before he'll be able to sleep that night, and his joints already ache from too long bent over books and casting bowls.

Forcing himself out of the chair, Bobby goes to look for those tongs again.

The phone rings just as he's about to head upstairs to bed, and Bobby seriously considers not answering. But he guesses whoever it is will only ring his cell, so he picks it up.

"This better be good," he rasps, voice not quite recovered from the afternoon's efforts.

"Bobby?"

"Sam?" He hasn't heard from the boys for weeks, and sometimes, he really wishes they'd just ring him up to say hi. "What do you need?"

And there went the rest of his night.

*****

  
**Monday**

When he was twenty-eight, Bobby learned that his limit for coffee was about nine cups, at least the way he makes it, and although long nights don't bother him when he's hunting, these kinds of long nights make his eyes ache. He'd rather be chasing monsters through woods or houses or towns than books, and he's not even sure that it's a monster he's after.

His tenth coffee is cold by the time Sam rings again.

"How's he doing?"

"He wouldn't have sausage for breakfast because he didn't know what had gone into it, and he wouldn't have bacon because of the fat. Oh, and apparently caffeine's bad for you too."

Bobby eyes the row of mugs on his desk. "Who knew?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I was kind of grateful he didn't want the coffee. He's jittery enough as it is. You find anything?"

"I think so." Scrubbing a hand over his face, Bobby tries to find the third-to-last book he was reading. "You ever hear of ghost sickness?"

They throw ideas around for a while, both coming up empty except for the cause and the (terminal) symptoms, and Sam turns down Bobby's offer to come help.

"You're our best chance to find a cure for this thing."

"Sam, I've been through most of the books in this house. There ain't nothing here."

"Then go through the rest of them!" Bobby hears Sam catch himself and take a deep breath before going on more calmly, "Sorry, Bobby, it's just-"

"Don't be an idiot, boy, I get it. Just try to keep him in one piece 'til I find something, okay?"

"Right."

Once Sam's hung up, Bobby spends a long time staring at the wall. Ghost sickness is a nasty way to go, taking your mind before it gets your body, and leaving you terrified the whole time. Bobby's tired enough to be seeing things himself, black words dancing across his vision. He found eight eyewitness accounts of people with ghost sickness, all of them describing pretty horrific symptoms before the victim's heart just gave out. Two killed themselves rather than face their terrors, and Bobby wonders if he should call Sam back. But the thought has stirred a memory, the way one of the victims killed himself ringing a bell that Bobby can't quite hear yet.

Instead, he stuffs some lunch meat into a roll and munches thoughtfully as he goes into one of the back bedrooms. He keeps the spare books in here, the ones that aren't really useful, just oddities or novels that he's picked up over the years and never gotten around to throwing away. Frowning with the effort of remembering a half-forgotten quote, Bobby finishes his sandwich and wipes his fingers on his jeans. There's the old Hemingways that he never got around to finishing, the books on hunting and trapping that he's had memorized for years, and the weird little collection of books that have never been of use, but he's kept on the basis that you never know. They don't get many Russian ghouls or Japanese snake spirits in this neck of the woods, but he knows he's read something about ghost sickness somewhere.

Sam would probably tell him that he could find what he's looking for on the internet, and Dean would sneeze and make some smartass comment about why he has to sleep on the floor when the books have their own bedroom. His wife would tell him he needs to dust more often.

The book he needs is gray on the spine, faded from the blue of the cover, and dust sticks to Bobby's fingers as he rifles through the pages. His Japanese is rusty, but fortunately they believed in illustrating. Let John mock him for looking at the pictures now.

He's still skimming pages when he comes out of the spare room, and his feet automatically take him towards his bedroom. Even if his Japanese is right, it's not going to be that much help. And he was up all night. And his bed does look awful comfortable right about now.

His cell phone wakes him up, and it's a good job the damn thing lights up, because Bobby never would have found it in the dark otherwise. Fumbling a little, he gets it to his ear.

"Sam?"

"I lost him." There's more than a little exasperation threaded through the fear in Sam's voice, easing some of Bobby's initial jolt of fear. If something worse had happened, Sam would be a whole lot more then ticked off.

"What do you mean, you lost him?"

"I mean, I lost him. He just..." Sam makes an annoyed sound, somewhere between a tut and a sigh. "Walked off."

"Okay." The book in Bobby's lap is a little bent at the corners now, and he straightens them automatically as he tries to think. "Do you know where he'd go?"

"Not in this town." This time, Sam really does sigh. "I'm sure he'll turn up. He'll get scared and come back to the motel eventually."

"Doesn't sound so good."

"It isn't."

There's a long, long pause, and Bobby starts flicking pages of the book again, trying to dredge up the memory of what he was reading just before he fell asleep. Sam'll get there eventually.

"Bobby?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Could you- I mean- If it's not-"

Honestly, the boy's worse than Dean. Probably that big brain of his getting in the way of his common sense. "What's the name of the town again?"

"Rocky Ridge, Colorado." The relief in Sam's voice makes Bobby shake his head.

"That's a long drive. Can't get there til tomorrow morning."

"Dean's got about fifteen hours," Sam says simply, and Bobby closes his eyes.

"I'll be there in ten."

*****

**Tuesday**

Things are definitely bad, Bobby decides, when you drive past flea-pit motels and actually think they might be a good place to sleep. But he's finally crossed the state line, and with Rocky Ridge just a few hours away, another coffee is probably a better plan. He passed his caffeine limit yesterday. Now it's just about having something else to think about in the hopes that it'll stop him dozing off at the wheel.

He turns east just as the sun pokes its nose over the horizon, bringing the sky from its pre-dawn haze of purple and orange into full-blown gold and blue. Squinting, Bobby drops the sun visor, wishing that he'd towed something with a tinted windshield in the past few months so that he could have driven it instead of this rust-mobile. He's followed the tunnel of light from his headlamps for the past seven hours, and the day is going to be dazzling.

Stopping at the next all-night diner, Bobby gets out of the car, wincing as his back pops and blinking back tears at the brightness of the light. He's too old to be driving all night. Of course, if anyone suggests that to him, he'll deny he even thought it, but his knees crack as he walks towards the entrance, and his neck feels as though he's spent too long on a stakeout. It's a relief when the waitress is friendly and the coffee drinkable. Bobby has one cup perched on a stool at the bar, reluctant to get too comfortable or to fold himself up too tight again before he has to, then he takes the second out to the car, wedging it under the central column and driving carefully over the diner's gravel parking lot.

He feels a little more human by the time he arrives at another diner, this time on the outskirts of Rocky Ridge, and calls Sam to find out where he wants to meet.

"You found your brother then," Bobby says, trying to decide whether this is going to be a burger place or a sandwich place. It's only five-thirty am, so probably sandwich. Bacon, maybe.

"Yeah, he turned up this morning." Sam sounds like he's trying not to laugh, which Bobby puts down to mild hysteria.

"Where are you staying? I'll come find you."

"Uh, I don't think that's such a good plan. Hang on." Sam's probably put his hand over the speaker, because all Bobby hears is what sounds like a slap and a muffled _stop doing that, geez, Dean_. When he comes back on the line, his voice is back to business. "Let's meet at the lumber mill. You got a map?"

The mill's on the other side of town, slightly under a mark where Bobby put a coffee cup on the map to hold it flat. "I got it. See you there in half an hour."

"Right."

Bobby doesn't need half an hour for the drive, it's just a few miles, but he needs the time anyway. Picking up the little blue book, he takes it into the diner with him to do some cramming. If he's going to risk his life to kill this thing, he's not going to do it an empty stomach.

It takes him just under fifty minutes to get to the mill in the end, and Sam's already there, perched on the hood of the Impala and staring out into the distance. He turns a little, and Bobby can see the worry in his eyes.

"Howdy, Sam."

"Hey, Bobby. Thanks for coming so quick." And Bobby's stomach clenches at the relief in Sam's face. He's saved these boys more times than he cares to think of (although he's keeping count of how many he owes them), but this is always his fear, that this time, he won't have the answers they need.

"Where's Dean?" he asks, and Sam pulls a face.

"Uh, home sick."

Bobby resists the urge to roll his eyes. They don't have time for elliptical answers and the warped Winchester sense of humor. Fortunately, Bobby's had plenty of practice at ignoring it. "So, have his hallucinations started yet?" It's maybe a little close for Sam's comfort, but he needs to know how far along they are.

"Yeah, a few hours ago."

That's not good. "How we doing on time?"

"We saw the coroner about 8:00 a.m. Monday morning, so, uh...just under two hours. What about you? You find anything?"

Bobby tugs the little blue book out of his pocket and passes it over. "This encyclopedia of spirits dates to the Edo period." He's only a little offended by the look of surprise on Sam's face. The boy should know better by now.

"You can read Japanese?"

Apparently Sam doesn't speak Japanese, or he might not be so impressed with Bobby's demonstration, but he just snorts and raises an eyebrow, saying, "Guess so, show-off."

Shrugging a little, Bobby nods to the book. "Anyway, this book lists a kind of ghost that could be our guy. It infects people with fear. It's called a Buru Buru."

"It say how to kill it?" Sam's flicking pages as though he can read what's on them. Or maybe he's just looking at the pictures.

"Same as usual. Burn the remains."

"Wonderful." Blinking hard, Sam turns a few more pages. "Uh...is there a plan B?"

Reluctantly, Bobby shrugs again. "Well, the Buru Buru is born of fear. Hell, it is fear. And the lore says we can kill it with fear." It doesn't sound any better in English than it had done in Japanese.

Sam seems to agree. "So we have to scare a ghost to death?"

"Pretty much."

"How the hell we gonna do that?" It's not actually much comfort when Sam's face clears almost at once, because Bobby's seen that look before and it never bodes well. "Come on," Sam says, hopping off the hood and starting to stride towards the mill so fast that Bobby has to half-jog to catch up. "I've got a plan."

It takes them nearly ninety minutes to find what they need and set everything up. This is easily one of the stupidest ideas Bobby's ever had, and he tries to remind himself that it's actually the stupidest idea _Sam's_ ever had. It's not much comfort. He weights the Japanese book open with his map of Colorado, squinting at the Kanji and trying to make sure he copies it right. The word might work in English, or Hebrew or Aramaic or any other language he can think of, but since this is the only reference to 'killing a ghost with fear' that he can find, he figures Japanese is probably his best bet.

He heads back out to the car to find Sam on the phone, telling Dean what a great plan they've got.

Bobby glares at him as he finishes. "This is a terrible plan."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"I know I said, "scare the ghost to death" but this?

"Hey, you got a better idea, I'm listening."

Since he doesn't, Bobby settles for huffing a little and watching Sam as he goes inside the mill. There's not long left to save Dean now, and if Bobby thought things were bad last time they lost him, he knows from the grim look on Sam's face that it'll be a whole lot worse this time around.

Waiting for Sam to drag Luther's ghost out of hiding goes on for much, much longer than Bobby's happy with, and he reminds himself that the clock in his car is more than a little fast as it ticks past what are supposed to be Dean's final minutes. Even so, they're cutting it close, and Bobby's heart near on stops when Sam yells over the radio for him to punch it. Somehow, he's gone from skeptic to true believer in the past forty minutes, and as he drives past the mill at a seriously unsafe speed, he makes himself sure it's going to work, hoping that his belief will somehow invest the spell word with more power. Over the roar of the engine, he can hear the rattle of the chain and the unearthly screams of a spirit in pain. As much as he hates putting this poor, tortured boy through more suffering, if the alternative is letting Dean die, then Bobby will grit his teeth and get on with it.

It's not quite a surprise that Sam was right, although Bobby's nerves aren't as happy with him as they could be. As the last of the ghostly screaming fades, he brings the car to a stop, breathing hard and trying to get his stomach to stay put. When he gets out of the car, balancing on shaky legs and staggering a little as he heads back into the mill, Sam's already on the phone, yelling Dean's name loud enough to be heard in Denver. It's only when he slumps against the work table running a hand through his hair that Bobby feels his own heart stop hammering in his chest.

He won't ever admit to Sam that there was a moment when he thought they'd failed, nor will he admit to the sheer relief an hour later of seeing Dean, upright and breathing and looking hardly the worse for wear after his latest near-death experience. Hardly the worse unless you know how to look, that is.

Bobby watches him as Sam makes their half-baked idea sound like a well-thought out plan. Kid's got a gift for BS, Bobby'll give him that.

Knowing his brother as he does, Dean doesn't look like he's buying any of it. "So you guys road-hauled a ghost with a chain?"

"Iron chain etched with a spell word," Sam corrects him, although Dean doesn't seem any more impressed.

"Hmm, that's a new one."

"It was what he was most afraid of. It was pretty brutal, though."

That's an understatement. Bobby's going to be hearing Luther's final screams for a while. It's worth it, though, when Dean manages a weak smile and tips his beer to Bobby.

"On the upside," he says, "I'm still alive, so uh, go team!" It's not quite as gung-ho as he usually manages, but Bobby gives him credit for effort.

Sam raises an eyebrow at his brother. "Yeah. How you feeling, by the way?"

"Fine."

Which is about as convincing as a tiger in a tutu, and while Bobby might usually let him get away with that, this ain't no usual year. He can't imagine the things that Dean's memory could dredge up to terrify him with, and he's not sure he wants to. Still, he hasn't given up on the kid just yet.

"You sure, Dean?" he says, squinting at him a little. "'Cause this line of work can get awful scary."

"I'm fine." And there's that edge of fear that Bobby's been listening for, roughening Dean's voice more than usual. "You want to go hunting? I'll hunt. I'll kill anything." The hand waving the beer bottle might be shaking or it might just be a trick of the morning light.

Either way, when the Winchesters don't want to talk, not even Bobby can make them, and he's not had enough sleep for this. Besides, Sam can probably handle Dean, although even that doesn't feel like a certainty. One thing Bobby is sure about is that neither of them are going to say anything while he's here. Rolling his eyes a little, he gives Sam a fake smile.

"Awwww, he's adorable." It's worth it for the glare he gets from Dean, and the snort of laughter from Sam. The boys don't laugh enough anymore. Waving a hand vaguely, he starts to head back to his car. "I got to get out of here. You boys drive safe."

Sam nods, "You too, Bobby. Hey, thanks."

The latter sounds almost like an afterthought, but Bobby's never exactly been one for the niceties himself. He waves again, getting in his car and slamming the door shut. That lock sounds like it needs looking at too. Maybe tomorrow.

Or Thursday. As he turns out of the lumber mill's yard onto the main highway, he notices a definite blurring at the edge of his vision. Too many spells on not enough sleep, probably, and he knows he shouldn't really drive like this. He's towed too many wrecks where people dozed off before they even knew their eyes were closed. Becoming one of those statistics really isn't on his to do list today.

The next motel is probably a good fifty miles away, and Bobby knows he can't wait that long, so he pulls over at the first chance he gets, just a patch of gravel on the edge of a wood, but it's far enough off the road. One of the reasons he likes the Chevelle is for this, the way you can drop the seat so far you're more or less lying down. Sleeping in the back is all very well for the young, but Bobby's learned to appreciate the value of a good recliner.

Pulling his cap down over his eyes, he stretches out his legs as best he can and lets the warmth of the sun through the windows ease him into sleep.

*****

**Wednesday**

Tuesday afternoon is best forgotten, the never-ending road through prairie and farmland stretching as far as the eye could see until Bobby felt like he was going to go blind from the distance. It's why he prefers to do his driving by night, without the sun's glare or the bleakness of that horizon to distract him. The motel he chose is just outside the center of Fremont, and the purple bedspread doesn't look any better by the early morning light.

It's been a while since he's driven through Sioux City, following the wide sweep of the river up to the little diner just north of the center. Burt's has been a stop off for hunters since before Bobby got in the game, and he's fairly sure that no one even remembers who Burt was anymore, if he ever existed.

Bobby knows most of the faces, and it's a pleasant enough way to eat breakfast, washing down toast with a few cups of strong coffee and catching up with the latest gossip out of Iowa and Wisconsin. Harry Vimer's in from Illinois, bringing rumors of something big brewing over there. Making a mental note, Bobby confirms that yup, Dean's back from the dead, and when someone makes a snide remark about how nothing seems to be able to keep those Winchesters down there, he gets hushed pretty quick. Bobby sips his coffee and makes another mental note.

Harry also introduces him to a hunter Bobby hasn't met before, name of Gary Turner, which seems kind of bland for a guy who looks like he should be playing for the NBA. Looking up at him is hurting Bobby's neck, so he has them both join him and when Gary heads back to the bathroom, Bobby gives Harry a curious look.

"Family or lover?"

Harry's been at this long enough to understand the question. "Little sister," he says shortly, and Bobby nods, draining his coffee and looking at his watch.

"Day's a-wasting," he offers by way of goodbye, and makes sure he tips Lucy on the way out. Never upset the waitress and never insult the cook are two of the basic rules in any hunter's bar. The staff have to put up with enough crap as it is and hunters make lousy regulars. Which reminds him, he should ring Ellen and let her know where Jo is this week. It's not much, but he can do that much, at least.

He idles back along the road to Sioux Falls, wondering if he should phone the boys. While he doesn't approve of fussing over them like a mother hen, it's hard to shake the feeling that they need someone looking out for them. The feeling's still with him by the time he gets home, and he's just made up his mind to call when the hall phone rings.

"Hello?" He'd half-expected it to be Sam, and he's not sure whether or not he's relieved to hear a female voice on the other end, asking if he can come out right away to rescue her car. "Yes, ma'am," he says, swapping the Chevelle's keys for the truck ones and opening the door even before he's put the receiver down. Fuel's not so cheap any more, and he did just make a fifteen-hundred mile round trip. Every hunter has to make his money somehow, and Bobby can't face the idea of bailing on someone just because he couldn't afford the gas.

Time to go do the day job.

*****

**Thursday**

The day job ends up being two days' of hard work, wrangling over a salvage and scrap price then trying to shift the thing as quickly as possible. Bobby knows he probably loses a few dollars on the deal, but it's worth it for the ready money.

Getting back sometime mid-afternoon, he drops his cap on the middle of the kitchen table, sending pieces of paper fluttering to the floor. He stoops to pick them up, reading off the lists he made, damn, is it a week ago already? Some go straight in the trash, others he drops in his upturned hat, ready to be re-written into next week's lists. Once he's done that, there's all the ghost sickness research to be cleared away, as well as the laundry that he never quite got around to finishing.

Bobby goes over to the window, trying to work out if it's worth even starting that last job. The weather's cleared to bright blue skies and sun glinting off the wrecked cars, but he knows it's going to rain later. Along with that knowledge, there's still that nagging sense of trouble lurking under the peace and quiet. It's a sense he's lived with for twenty-eight years, and he doesn't like the way it keeps getting stronger. Ever since he was a kid, Bobby's always known when it was going to rain, never mind that the sky was clear or that there were no clouds in sight. He just knew deep in his bones what was going to happen, and there are some instincts he's learned to trust. And there were some that he wishes he didn't.

Shaking his head, Bobby goes to start putting books back on the shelves and magical paraphernalia back where it belongs. He has to be able to find it when he needs it, and he gets the feeling he's going to need it sooner rather than later.

Storm's blowing in. He'll need to be ready.


End file.
